


Sir

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-21
Updated: 2003-10-21
Packaged: 2019-05-15 12:59:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14790965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Donna wonders what she should wear to visit President Bartlet at three a.m. in the morning to put him to bed, at the behest of his always formidable wife.





	Sir

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

  


**Sir**

**by:** Ygrawn

**Character(s):** Donna, POTUS  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** G  
**Summary:** Donna wonders what she should wear to visit President Bartlet at three a.m. in the morning to put him to bed, at the behest of his always formidable wife.  
**Author's Note:** General Season 4, after re-election. No spoilers. And feedback is yummy. 

Donna Moss’ Apartment

3.00 a.m. EST

Donna has trouble locating her phone. She can hear it ringing, but it’s in her bag, which is on the couch in the living room, under a collection of urgent files and equally urgent memos, yesterday’s jacket, her scarf, and her large black overcoat.

Plus, she had been fast asleep until she heard it, and she thinks she might still be dreaming, in that liminal state where all things are possible. Donna hears ringing phones wherever she is - on planes, in the bathroom, in her sleep, in the middle of songs. It’s one of the many hazards of her job.

But the phone keeps bleating as she rolls out of bed and nearly trips over yesterday’s skirt and shirt. It stops after eleven rings, when the message bank kicks in, only to start again a moment later, as she stumbles down the hallway and bangs her elbow on the doorframe of the living room.

Donna assumes that it’s Josh, because it’s exactly the way he would call her - letting the phone ring out and starting again, waiting until she picks up only to berate her for taking so long.

She’s completely wrong. It’s Abigail Bartlet.

“Hello, Donna.”

There is no Miss Manners protocol for a three a.m. cell phone call from the First Lady of the United States, but Donna thinks she’s doing pretty well to reply, “Hello ma’am.”

“What time is it in Washington?”

She attempts to answer mildly. “It’s three a.m. in the morning, ma’am.”

“Oh, I am sorry, Donna. I’m in London.” There’s a pause. “I’m afraid I need to ask a favour.”

“Of course, ma’am.” She’s almost awake now, and this is her job, isn’t it? Well, not quite, but it’s obviously important enough to warrant a three a.m. phone call. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Bartlet?”

“It’s my jackass of a husband. He just rang me. His back was hurting him so he took some painkillers.”

Donna makes a face.

“Exactly,” Abby says with frightening presentiment. “And he’s a little out of it, and the agents on night duty don’t know him very well.”

“Oh.” Donna still isn’t sure why she’s been called.

“The thing is, it’s Charlie’s day off tomorrow. Or...today, I guess.”

She nods. “He’s going up to visit Deanna.” She grasps the problem immediately. “Of course you can’t call Charlie. But I’m not sure I have clearance for that section of the Residence, ma’am. Certainly not at this time of night.”

“I’ve just spoken to Ron. It’s fine, Donna. You need to work out what the President took and get him to go to bed. He should fall asleep without any trouble. Then call me, would you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Abby senses her doubt. “Donna, he might be the President, but you have my full permission to boss him around in my absence.”

“Ah...okay, ma’am.”

“Thank you very much, Donna.”

Donna hangs up, and wonders exactly what she should wear to visit a drugged-up President Bartlet at three a.m. in the morning to put him to bed, at the behest of his absent, but always formidable wife.

********

The White House

The Residence

3.30 a.m. EST

She goes with a navy blue suit in the end, because she figures that by the time she finishes up with the President, there’ll be just enough time for breakfast in the Mess, and then she’ll have to start work for Josh.

There are too many powerful men in her life. And the most amusing thing is, Donna can see Josh at some point in the future, being vague enough to take too many painkillers. Both he and the President are always detached from reality - they live in a different world.

The traffic is expectedly light, and the sky is expectedly dark. The night is chilly and secretive, slow-moving and a little magical. The nature of Donna’s job means that she’s often up at ridiculous hours, and there is something mysterious and charming about the pitch-black silent night.

She parks without trouble and cuts through the West Colonnade to the Residence.

The agents have clearly been notified of her arrival, because they let her through without a murmur. She vaguely recognizes two of them. It’s truly bizarre, seeing fully-suited men at three-thirty in the morning. The Residence is barely lit, and Donna doesn’t think she could live alone in such an enormous, empty house. Although, the President doesn’t exactly live alone.

She goes up to the third floor, to the President’s private rooms, passing more agents. The double doors to his rooms are closed, and Donna opens them slowly, carefully. 

And finds the President sitting on the couch.

He doesn’t seem surprised to see her. “Hello Ms. Moss.” He frowns. “Or is it Miss?”

“Ms,” Donna replies, surveying her President.

He’s wearing worn jeans and a Notre Dame jumper, his out-of-office uniform. His hair is slightly rumpled. His expression is relaxed, but he doesn’t look as spaced out as the last time he overdosed on painkillers.

“How are you, Mr. President?”

“My wife sent you,” he surmises confidently. “Because I called her and sounded odd, so I told her I’d taken some medication for my back, and she thinks I’ve overdosed again and lost my mind.”

Donna nods uncertainly. “Yes, sir.”

“I haven’t, you know. Taken any pain medication this evening. I’m not so certain about the mind thing.”

Donna takes a step closer, and realizes what’s wrong. Or rather, that the President is telling the truth, and hasn’t taken a single painkiller this evening. 

Instead, he is sitting too carefully, holding his body too tightly, and speaking a shade too precisely, hesitating momentarily before each word so that it comes out correctly.

He is drunk.

Donna lets her gaze slide over to the bar without moving her head. There’s an empty decanter of Scotch with the stopper sitting negligently beside.

“I think my wife knows what’s really wrong,” the President comments. “That’s why she didn’t call Leo.”

“Yes, sir,” Donna quietly agrees.

He flaps his hand, but the gesture loses force halfway through and his arm falls back to the couch. “And it’s Charlie’s day off tomorrow...today, actually, and he deserves it, too. He works too hard.” He sighs. “I never thought I wanted a son, not after...but, he’s a good boy.”

“Yes, sir,” she agrees again, stepping closer again. “Would you mind if I sat down, Mr. President?”

“Of course not, Donna.” He seems surprised. “You don’t have to ask.”

Donna chooses a seat at a right-angle to the President. She smoothes down her skirt. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re probably wondering why Abby called you. Abby likes you, Donna. She made us all Canadians for you. _I’d_ make us all Canadians for you. Except that Congress wouldn’t like that.”

Donna half-smiles. “They’d probably have something to say about it, sir.”

“Congress can’t keep their mouth shut,” he says darkly. “They’re the original nagging fishwife. Do you know where the term fishwife comes from? In London, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, there was a market where women sold fish. They would call out to customers in loud, demanding voices, to purchase their wares. Whenever a wife started to nag her husband, they would say she sounded just like the fishwives from the market.”

She nods politely. “I didn’t know that, sir.”

The President eyeballs her. “Sure you did. You don’t have to make me feel smarter than you.” He changes tack seamlessly. “Toby likes you too, Donna. A lot. He thinks you’re good stuff. Well, those aren’t his words, but you always have to paraphrase Toby. He’s a writer like that.” The President frowns. “I don’t like that my words are coming out wrong.”

“How much have you had to drink, sir?”

“CJ likes you. Leo likes you, and Leo doesn’t like many people. He trusts you. And Sam really likes you. He thinks you’re fabulous. He did say that, once, I think. He said something about how remarkable you are. And everyone knows how Josh feels about you.” Bartlet glances over at Donna. “Zoey didn’t like you so much, for a while. During the campaign. And after that, for a while.”

Donna nods. “I know, sir.”

“You do? Huh. But do you know why?”

“Because, sir, she had a crush on Josh,” Donna says, although that’s a very oblique reply and doesn’t explain very much at all. 

She has known for some time that most of the White House has an opinion about her relationship with her boss. Josh, of course, remains oblivious to the gossip and would probably become insufferable if he knew that he and Donna were a regular topic of conversation in the Mess, in the hallways, at functions.

The President nods, and then makes a face. He closes his eyes briefly. “The room is spinning. Just a little, but I don’t think it should be spinning at all.”

“How much did you have to drink, sir?”

“Zoey likes you now, and she never really disliked _you_ , I suppose. Abby liked you the minute she met you. She came and told me that Josh had hired a new assistant, right off the street, and that she was determined and sassy and fabulous. Of course, I had to ask her which one was Josh. And then I forgot all about you for months. Until New York, only I thought you were Sam’s fiancé.”

Donna is surprised by that. “Really, Mr. President?”

He nods. “Really - you looked engaged. Then I heard you and Josh having an argument, and I thought you were Josh’s girlfriend. That was very strange, because I thought Josh was going out with that brunette at the time.”

“Mandy Hampton, sir. And they were.”

“Yes, I thought they were because I’d seen them arguing, too, the week before. And then I remembered something about a blonde assistant, and saw you answer a phone and take a message, and I knew who you were.” He glances at her. “I’d met you a few times before that, hadn’t I?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m sorry, Donna. For not remembering you. I’m bad with names and faces. One of the secretarial candidates thought that was odd for a man of my brilliance.”

“Not really, sir. Studies indicate that...”

“I know the studies, Donna.” The President smiles. “We probably know all the same studies and reports.”

“I’m sure you know more than I do, sir.” Donna leans forward. “How much have you had to drink, sir?”

“You’re not allowed to ask that question. I’m the President and I say so.”

Donna holds her breath, and then says, carefully, “Well, sir, Abby said I have her permission to boss you around.”

“Oh.” The President pauses. “Well, that could be a problem. Do you know how I met Abby?”

“No, sir.” Donna can see an empty glass, next to another decanter, sitting on the coffee table at the far end of the room, near the door to the President’s bedroom. That decanter is also empty, and she wonders why he hasn’t passed out yet. Unless there wasn’t very much in the first decanter.

“She fell into my lap.”

Donna blinks and swings her gaze back to Bartlet. “I’m sorry, Mr. President?”

“She fell into my lap. I was sitting on a park bench, reading Edmund Burke. Fascinating man, Burke. He was Irish, and he wrote in response to the French Revolution, because he was terrified that same thing would happen in England, which was ridiculous considering that their...” Remarkably, the President stops himself. “Anyway, I was minding my own business when this...this woman fell into my lap.”

“That’s certainly memorable, sir.”

“Oh, that’s not the half of it. She’d been roller-skating along the path in the park. With her boyfriend. Bet you didn’t know she had a boyfriend when she met me. His name was David Garner. Total ass, too. He was studying to be a doctor, like her, only he had half her brains and a quarter of Abby’s charm. She’d lost her balance, and fell on top of me in a tumble of red hair and tangled limbs. She was laughing too hard to say very much.”

“What did you do?”

“The same thing any man would have done. I ditched Edmund Burke and tried to look much cooler than I was. She stopped laughing, eventually, and told me her name was Abby Barrington. She apologized with her hand on her my shoulder. David Ass Garner had arrived by then, and he was laughing too. He helped her up and they skated off.”

Donna frowns. “But...”

“Ah, there’s much more to the story, Donna. It took me a while to woo Abigail Bartlet. There’s always more to the story, don’t you know?”

“How much have you had to drink, sir?”

“Enough. Too much. Not as much as you think. I’ve stopped now, so it’s okay.”

“Then why don’t you go to bed and get some sleep? It’s past four o’clock now, sir, and you have to get up soon.”

“Why?”

“Well...” Donna trails off. “Forgive me for being blunt, Mr. President, but I don’t think you should go to your security briefing without sleeping it off.”

“I’m not tired,” the President tells her.

Donna freezes and speaks very carefully. “Are you having trouble sleeping, Mr. President?”

“Having trouble _again,_ is what you mean to ask, Donna, although you’re not supposed to know about that. How do you know about everything?”

“Magic, sir.”

He managed a half-grin. “Don’t give me lip, young lady. I’m serious. How do you seem to know all and many things?”

“I pay attention, sir, without anybody paying attention to me. It’s what I’m paid to do.”

“Well,” the President continued, “The answer is no. I’ve been sleeping fine. I’m just not tired now. I feel like talking to somebody, and you’re here, and you have instructions from Abby, so you won’t be leaving anytime soon. That makes you the perfect audience, really.”

“Well, sir, I think you should...”

“We met again at a café, on campus. We were in line for the soup and sandwich special, waiting to order, and she was standing behind me. Abby tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘Hey, aren’t you the guy I fell on top of?’ She apologized again and followed me to the table without being asked. So, we sat together and started talking. She was so beautiful - so vivid and alive. Abby was fascinated that I wanted to be a priest although she said it would be a waste. It took me a while to work out what that meant. She also told me that economics was the most boring subject ever invented in the history of human kind. Those were her exact words, and then I was terrified, because I didn’t have much else to talk about. But it didn’t seem to matter to Abby - she can make a conversation out of anything. She talked with her whole body and she wasn’t like anybody I’d ever met. I thought I’d understood the temptation of earthly delights, but she was incredible.”

“Your wife is very beautiful, sir.” Donna shifted in her seat. “She was worried about you. When she rang.”

“Of course she was. You all worry about me. Charlie gets paid to worry about me. And he does a damn fine job. Too good a job.”

“Yes, sir.”

The President’s gaze settled on Donna again. “I know why she sent you. I know why the others like you. I know why Josh likes you.”

Donna couldn’t think of anything to say.

“You’re full of sass,” the President proclaims. “Just like Mrs. Landingham.” She bites her lower lip and hopes he doesn’t notice. He does of course. “I mean that, Donna.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The President slides along the couch. “Josh is like me in some ways, you know. Except that he’s a jackass, and I’m not.” He shakes his head. “If I’m vague, Josh is comatose. Right under his nose...”

She interrupts hurriedly. “Sir, how much...”

“The question’s getting old, Donna.”

“I’m going to keep asking it, Mr. President.”

“I didn’t say that sass was a good thing, you know.” He slides closer again. “You were good in New York, Donna. You were good everywhere. You kept Josh focused. You kept him organized, which is pretty damn impressive. Josh is more disorganized than my sister-in-law, a woman who once claimed she forgot when Christmas was.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Bet you’re wondering about my sister-in-law, now.”

“A little, sir.”

“Henrietta Bartlet - she makes my brother look positively efficient. What does you father do, Donna?”

She’s surprised by the abrupt change in topic. “He’s a claims adjuster, sir.”

“Oh. He’s in insurance.” The President pauses. “I don’t mean to be insulting - it’s just that I’m firmly convinced that insurance companies are Satan’s representatives on earth.”

“So am I, sir. But it kept me clothed and fed for twenty years, so I kept my mouth shut at the dinner table.”

“So did I. You’re probably thinking I’m drunk because of my father, only, it’s got nothing to do with my father, because I had a whole therapy session about my problematic relationship with him and how I’ll never win his approval, so I’m magically cured now.”

Donna isn’t ready for this. His drinking has prompted this distracted openness, and she’s not ready for it.

“Mr. President...”

His voice turns sharp. “I had a lot to drink, Donna, as I occasionally am wont to do. Only I’m the President of this morally upright pain-in-the-ass country, so apparently I can’t smoke a cigarette, or walk across the road to buy a carton of milk to put in the coffee that I can’t make for myself, so I can drink it in an office that sometimes resembles a prison. And I can’t get drunk. Never. Not ever. And it’s got nothing to do with my father, and everything to do with things that aren’t remotely related to my father.”

“Okay, sir.”

“Not everything is about my father. Or my mother.”

“I didn’t...I don’t think that, sir.”

The President lets his head fall back against the couch, and he suddenly seems weary and defeated. Old, and worn-out, and nothing like the man who suits up for every fight, every battle. He doesn’t look like other men his age - Donna could never say that about him, because he is a different man, with different expectations for himself. But he looks like a person, not a President. 

There is nothing deified about him at this moment.

“You use more sirs than the rest of them.” He frowns, only it comes out crooked and strange. “Are you scared of me, Donna?”

“No, sir,” she blithely lies.

“You are.”

“Okay, sir, I am, but only a little. But I’m scared of our photocopier, so you shouldn’t get a swelled head, sir.”

“What’s wrong with your photocopier?”

“It’s evil, sir. Josh thinks we should have it exorcised.”

“Why haven’t we bought a new one?”

Donna laughs with genuine amusement. “We’re the government, sir. We have no funding.”

“What?”

“It’s true, sir. You remember when CJ broke the White House?” He looks confused. “When you hired Ainsley Hayes, she slammed her door and it broke the White House? The doorjamb is still cracked, two years later.”

“Really? CJ broke the White House? My office is kind of nice.” He smiles.

Donna rolls her eyes. “Yes, sir. The rest of us are working on antiquated machinery, in stuffy bullpens with no space and bad lighting. And the smell of wet wool seems to linger in every corner and corridor.”

“It’s that bad?”

“It’s that bad,” Donna confirms. “But I’m a thirty-second walk from the Oval Office and my job allows me to help hundreds of everyday people who need help but can’t or won’t necessarily ask for it. Plus, I get to see some incredible things, meet famous people and go to nice parties, so I’m not complaining about it, sir.”

“I think you are, Donna,” he teases.

“No, sir,” she says seriously. “I love my job.”

“Sometimes, I hate my job.” The President looks around the room. “I’ve drunk everything in here, haven’t I?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, damn. There’s no way you’re going to go downstairs and find me something else to drink?”

“No, sir.”

“Not even if I give you a Presidential order?”

“No, sir.”

“I could have you arrested, Donna.”

“I know that, sir, but I’m willing to take my chances that Leo would kick your ass into next week for abusing your power like that.”

“You say that like I’m scared of Leo,” the President scoffs. Donna just stares at him, and a shadow of a smile flickers across his face. “Well, let’s not going throwing that information around too loudly.”

“Of course not, sir.”

“And you say you’ve got instructions to boss me around?” he asks.

“Yes, sir.”

“From my wife?” Donna nods. “I hate my job.”

“I think you have the most difficult job in the country, sir. I think there’d be something wrong with you if you didn’t go to sleep some days hating it, Mr. President.”

“Well, that’s good, because there are many things wrong with me.” He sighed deeply. “I don’t ever get to do anything.”

“Sorry, sir?”

“Just once Donna, I’d like you to get through a whole sentence without using the word ‘sir’. Surely you can do that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Smart-ass.” The President shifts even closer. “I feel like I don’t do anything important. I sit in an office and talk to lots of people and take lots of photo opportunities and the only thing I actually do is make decisions about which country to bomb the hell out of this week and which one to put on the list for next week. I don’t...I don’t do anything.”

Donna laces her fingers together, and takes a deep breath. She isn’t qualified for this. When it comes to Joshua Lyman problems she’s an expert. Leader of the Free World? Not so much.

“The things that you do are important.”

He flaps a hand. “Oh, I _know_ that. And it’s ceremonial, and I’m supposed to have people doing most of the work for me, so that I can make decisions without wading into the quagmire. But, you know, I’d like to do something, once in a while. Take a real meeting. Actually sit down and write some of the legislation instead of just singing it. Do the research on an issue something instead of letting others do it for me. Screw not having enough time - I want to make time. I’ve forgotten what it’s like.”

“I can...I can understand that, sir.” Donna looks up at him. “And I think it says something about you that you feel that way. Many...many people in your position would take their privileges for granted.”

“It’s not about my father,” President Bartlet says quietly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you get along with your father? Apart from the Satan’s minion thing?”

“For the most part, sir. He’s a good man. He has a good sense of humour and he’s kind and thoughtful.”

“Do you respect him?”

“Yes,” Donna replied, without hesitation. “He tries to do the right thing, and he’s not an arrogant man. He doesn’t assume he’s always right and he’s prepared to listen to different opinions. He also puts up with my mother and my sisters, and they can be a little...overbearing, sir.”

“You have sisters?”

“Two, sir. Ebony and Lucrezia.”

“She was named after Lucrezia Borgia?” the President asks, with a raised eyebrow.

“My mother liked the name, sir. She wasn’t aware of the historical significance. We call her Lucy.”

“I have a brother and a sister,” Bartlet says. “You probably know that. You could probably tell me their names.”

“What _are_ their names, sir?” Donna asks, with a genuine expression on her face.

The President stares at her, and then a smile flits across his face. “Right under Josh’s nose...” he trails off. “Jonathan and Mary. They’re both younger than me.”

“Josiah, Jonathan and Mary?”

“I was the odd one out,” Bartlet agrees. “You said your father isn’t arrogant? Do you see arrogance as a bad thing?”

Donna thinks seriously for a moment. “Not necessarily. Josh is terribly arrogant...”

“I hadn’t noticed,” the President deadpans.

She smiles. “Well, he is arrogant and would admit it, if you asked him, sir. But it doesn’t stop him from questioning his judgement and his motives and his prejudices. Arrogance is only a bad thing when it blinds a person, when it stops them from listening to other people and respecting their opinions. A healthy arrogance, however, can help you get places.” 

The President was staring at her, intently. “Promise me something, Donnatella.” She starts at his use of her full name. “What?”

“I...nothing, sir.”

“No, that’s something.”

“I’m not used to people...people other than Josh using my full name, sir. Even my parents don’t, anymore.”

The President tilts his head, and then obviously thinks better of that and straightens it. “The room is moving again,” he mutters. “I won’t call you Donnatella.”

“I didn’t say that, sir, I just meant...”

“Only my wife calls me Josiah,” he offered, as if that means something. Which it does, but Donna wasn’t ready to acknowledge it. “Well, these days she’s the only one. But promise me something, Donna.”

“Anything, sir.”

He smiles. “You shouldn’t have said that. I might ask you to help me overthrow the United States Congress.”

She smiles. “Josh and I have been working at that for five years now, sir. We’re getting very close.”

“Come and see me, sometimes.”

She frowns. “I...sir?”

“I never see you. There are reasons, and protocol and all of that. But you’re Senior Staff. You are. You’ve earned your stripes. And Josh might be oblivious, but I’m not. The others like you, Donna. I like you, too. Come and see me, sometimes.”

She finds herself nodding, and wondering why a drunken President Bartlet is more admirable than most sober men. She cannot judge him for this momentary lapse, because she doesn’t see it that way.

Donna smiles. “I like you too.” And she leaves off the sir.

“Okay. Now, I’m going to bed. Let’s pretend that I wasn’t drunk, and you forget most of what I just said, because I’m pretty sure it was all incriminating.”

Donna hovers as the President stood up, but he is remarkably steady on his feet. She escorts him to his bedroom door, opening it for him. 

“Will you be alright now, sir?”

“Yes, Donna. You should call Abby and tell her...”

“I’ll tell the First Lady that you’ve gone to bed, sir, and that you’re fine.”

“Tell her not to worry,” the President adds.

“Of course.” Donna hesitates. “Sir?”

“Yes?” He half-turns from the foot of his bed.

“You and Dr. Bartlet - you said it was a long story, but I wouldn’t mind hearing it one day.”

The President nodded. “I can tell you about David Ass Garner and how Abby fractured my nose at the Winter Carnival.”

“I look forward to it, sir. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Donna closes the bedroom door, and after a moment she hears the light click off and the sheets rustle. Donna waits an extra few minutes, and wanders back down the halls as the sky lightens in inches. It’s almost five o’clock. The Mess doesn’t open until six, so Donna decides to get some filing done.

Jed Bartlet punches his pillow into shape and closes his eyes. And wills the room to stop spinning.

His staff have told him many things - that they respect him, that they admire and envy him, or that they would do anything for him without being asked.

But none of them have ever said that they like him, as if he is a person they’ve just met standing in line at the supermarket, or in the park whilst walking their dog. It makes him smile. 

Then he sleeps.

In the morning, he finds a glass of water and two Berrocca tablets on his bedside table and a note from Donna. It takes him a while to read the note, but when he finally deciphers Donna’s writing, he grins.

********

That Afternoon

White House Operations Bullpen

2.30 p.m. EST

“Donna...what’s...where are you going?”

Donna pulls on her jacket and collects her files. She also grabs her coffee - she’s starting to tire. “Nowhere special, Josh.”

“No, you’re going somewhere,” Josh says, stepping up close to her. “Where are you going and why don’t I know about it?”

“It’s right there in your diary, Josh. It says _DM - twenty-minute break_. It’s been on your schedule since you arrived this morning.”

“And what is this twenty-minute break for?”

“For...things. It’s my business.”

“Not on my watch, it isn’t.”

Donna glances at Josh’s watch. “Your watch is a piece of crap.” She begins to walk away from the bullpen.

“I’m just going to follow you,” he says, right on her heels. “And then we’ll see how far this secrecy nonsense gets you.”

Donna walks into the Outer Office, as if she doesn’t have Josh dogging her every step and keeping up a running commentary about how she can’t just breeze about the White House taking twenty-minute breaks whenever she wants to.

“Hey, Donna,” Nancy greets her. “He got your note this morning, so I cleared his schedule for the next twenty minutes. You’re lucky he had such a light day.”

“I wouldn’t have scheduled it, otherwise.”

“I set up a laptop on his desk,” Nancy adds.

Donna smiles. “Thanks, Nancy. If something important comes through, don’t worry about interrupting. We’re just doing some research.”

“Research?” Josh asks Donna. “What? Donna, what’s going on?”

The blonde raises an eyebrow, superiorly. “It’s none of your business, Josh.”

Donna sails into the Oval Office, and closes the door firmly behind Josh.

“Good afternoon, Donna,” the President says. He points to the laptop. “Apparently, we’re going to use this thing to research agriculture statistics.”

“Indeed we are, sir.”

“Really? Because I think computers might be possessed. As well as your photocopier. We could get a two-for-one exorcism deal.”

“While we’re at it, could somebody take a look at Josh? I have grave concerns for his mental well-being.”

“Oh, that’s not possession, Donna. That’s just Josh.”

Donna laughs and pulls a seat up next to the President, and begins to show him what to do.

On the other side of the closed door, Josh asks rhetorically, “Research? On what?”

“The annual production output of yams,” Nancy tells him with a bright smile. 

Josh just blinks. “Yams?”

********

The End


End file.
